The world lost Ozzy Osbourne on Tuesday. It was mere weeks ago that the world watched the final Black Sabbath show with dozens of opening acts paying tribute to the man and his music. The farewell concert was the highest-grossing charity concert of all time, raising more than $200 million.
It’s not easy to explain Ozzy to someone who’s never heard “War Pigs” or “Crazy Train” shredded through a basement speaker at face-melting volume. For so many, he was simply the Prince of Darkness. The lead singer of Black Sabbath, a band that basically created heavy metal music. An icon.
Of course, there’s a different group of people who vaguely remember him as the guy from that reality TV show with his odd children, incessant mumbling, and screaming “Sharon!” constantly. My wife fits that bill.
The retrospectives are already churning. If you loved the “Prince of Darkness,” there will be plenty of looks back at his music and legacy. If you loved the silly Ozzy from The Osbournes, I’m sure there will be plenty of people who will remember him that way, too.
As for me, I think the reality is that he’s a little bit of both—the brooding madman on stage and the loving, manic, sometimes incoherent father on the TV show.
The first song I remember hearing from Black Sabbath was “Iron Man.” The psychedelic video made an impression. However, it was his first three solo albums, Blizzard of Ozz, Diary of a Madman, and Bark at the Moon, that scratched the itch that I was looking for right as I started high school. I remember hearing the title track from Bark at the Moon and going back in his catalog to find more.
The combination of the blistering guitar work by Jake E. Lee and Randy Rhodes and Ozzy’s voice slicing through like a deranged preacher was all I needed. I played plenty of air guitar to “Crazy Train” and “Flying High Again.”
Black Sabbath gave heavy metal its birth certificate. Although I’d argue Ozzy’s solo stuff is better. His lyrics aren’t grand poetry. They’re blunt and basic, featuring madness, fear, war, love, over-the-top monsters, and more. The intricate fretwork by Tony Iommi and Rhodes, Lee, and later Zakk Wylde, paired with that instantly recognizable voice, made the songs battle cries for the anxious, the angry, and the overlooked.
And then, somehow, he’s suddenly in your living room—wiggling, jovial, almost harmless, letting the world laugh at and with him. It’s the classic inversion: what starts in darkness finds its way to the light, and vice versa.
Despite the black clothes, heavy eye makeup, and brooding songs, he never really took himself that seriously.
Ozzy showed that awkward, loudmouthed weirdos could make a home in the world or, at least, make enough noise that the world made some room.
That’s not just music. That’s impact. That’s legacy.
Some people leave footprints. Ozzy leaves us with scorch marks. He may never have set out to change everything, but he did—and the world’s a little less ordinary for it.
Be seeing you.
